


Summer's Daughter

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Leave Her to Her Game [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dorne, Drug-Induced Sex, House Martell, Leave Her to Her Game, Modern Essos, Modern Summer Isles, Modern Westeros, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, People of Color in ASOIAF, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-16 21:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: AU - Modern.Sarella Sand-Qo has always existed in multiple worlds: The dark web versus Oldtown's towers of tech and academia; the privileged life afforded by her parents versus the criminal underworld; the dry sands of Dorne versus the sweet waters of the Summer Isles; her hot-tempered father's family versus her cool and shrewd mother's family.  When a hit on a sex-trafficking ring leads the Sand Snakes to the Summer Isles, the dual natures inside Sarella collide, making for one of her most challenging jobs yet.





	1. Calm Down, Sarella

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's only me and you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904588) by [xdarksistahx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdarksistahx/pseuds/xdarksistahx). 

> This started as a one-shot. 
> 
> But I wanted to properly establish the Summer Isles, including hints of cultural differences from Westeros and a modern Caribbean carnival-inspired setting.
> 
> This is a quick plot set-up. In the next chapter, we'll meet Sarella's mother. A whole person. With a name that's not "merchant ship captain." lol.
> 
> Can you tell I'm excited?

Sarella doesn't notice her fists are clenched until Nymeria reaches for her with perfectly manicured fingers. Calm down, Sarella, the touch says. This is still business.

Except it isn't.

Not when Freys are drugging and abducting Summer Isles women for the growing sex trafficking ring in the Bolton-led North.

"The North and their allies grow increasingly bold without Stark leadership," her father says in his Dornish drawl. "Summer Isles officials think our government too corrupt to mete out justice. They prefer swift, quiet action." He meets each of his daughters' eyes around the table. "Not like Qohor."

"Are they targeting a particular island?" Tyene asks.

Oberyn nods. "Symond and Jared have been taking trips to The Isle of Women. Poor communities, especially. Where they think the women won't be missed."

"That doesn't make sense," Obara chimes in. "Why not go for the more populated islands? Jhala or Walano?"

Sarella unlocks her clenched jaw to speak. "People on The Isle have more Rhoynish blood and fairer skin. They can sell them at a higher price in the North." For a moment, everyone is silent; her unspoken words settling over the table: _They're abducting women who look like me. _

Nymeria breaks the silence. "And we have Arianne's blessing to move on the Freys?"

Their father shrugs. "They are small fish to House Martell. And if done properly, it will look like an accident."

She doesn't want quiet or an accident. She wants old-time retribution. Heads on pikes at Summer Isles ports warning everyone north of the Sunset Sea. She knows her rage is apparent when Oberyn turns to Tyene for a plan. "I believe this calls for one of your special recipes?"

Tyene blinks her bright blue eyes. "Well," she says, a cruel grin spreading across her innocent face. "Entitled party boys go missing in exotic locations every day, Father. Travel abroad can be so dangerous."

"Good," Oberyn says. "I want a mission plan in twenty-four hours." He asks Sarella to stay behind, but she knows it's not truly a question. The Red Viper rarely commands his daughters--he doesn't have to. They go to his training room, a sprawling gym in the basement of his condo. "You were rusty in Lys," he teases. "I fear you spend too much time at keyboards while your sisters are in the field. Spar with an old man?"

She wants to remind him of the men she picked off from long-range atop the Lyseni bar, but this isn't a true test of her skills. Obara and the prodigious Little Elia are the hand-to-hand combat experts. "Are you sure you have the right daughter? I'm afraid I only inherited your wits. Not your spear-play."

He tosses her a blunted wooden spear. "Then use them." He does not go easy on her. After the forty-something man knocks her down twice, she sees red. "If you were fighting me right now, you would see my hits coming," he chides. "Your anger clouds your judgment, Sarella. Get out of your head."

This time, she trains her eyes on his and blocks two hits. Her feet follow, going where she needs in order to defend his attacks. Now that his hits aren't landing as frequently, she sees his tendencies--the side he favors, where he leaves himself open--and she's on the offense, steadily advancing until her spear connects. With his side, his upper thigh, a clack across his wrist that sends his spear fluttering out of his grasp.

"That's a start," he encourages, picking up his weapon. "Again."

Their spears tap and rattle for another hour. With each round, Sarella is clearer and sharper, using a combination of quickness and cleverness to anticipate Oberyn's moves and hold her own.

"Now," her father says after they've finished and he gives her a towel and bottled water. "Tell me how you execute the Frey job."

She sits cross-legged on a training mat, considering it. Any attack on a transport run would turn into a shoot-out. They needed the Freys in the Summer Isles for something else, something casual. "The Festival of Sun and Flowers," she starts. "We use the Freys' Summer Isles connect to lure them down. Crowds of women in bright, skimpy costumes...shouldn't be difficult. After that, it's just as Tyene said: arrogant travelers in a strange land..." She takes a swig of water. "So much could go wrong."

"I can count on you to stay focused? Your mother's family doesn't do Festival quietly," he says. "This team only works when you're on your A-game, Sarella."

Oberyn isn't wrong. As the largest rum distributors in the region, the Qos are fixtures in festival season, hopping from island to island to host galas and sponsor street celebrations. Still, Sarella isn't used to her father doubting her--she doesn't like it. "Of course, Father."

"Good," he says, the warmth returning to his eyes as he helps her up. "Let's get cleaned up and ready for dinner. Obara's already texted me twice wondering why we're taking so long."

* * *

The Summer Isles' world-renown festival season dates back to Princess Nymeria's arrival on the island known then as Abulu. Though the Princess later migrated north to Dorne, the Rhoynar who remained on the island infused it with their culture, including the elaborate gatherings held in the lost Festival City Chroyane. The tradition eventually spread across the Isles, each adding more native flair: intricate costumes of feathers and flowers, dancing to lively music in the streets, and the consumption of fruit-infused rums. As a tribute to its Rhoynish roots, the Festival of Sun and Flowers, a celebration of Princess Nymeria and the Isle of Women, kicks off the region's festival season.

They arrive the week before Festival begins and the first thing Sarella notices when they land is the warm, sweet air--a contrast from the dry, spicy heat of Dorne or the mild, flowery Oldtown breeze. This smell, of nut oils and fruit, is the smell of her childhood. Her pleasant nostalgia is interrupted when they walk through the airport and see a driver holding a sign that reads "Ms. Sarella Qo," reminding her of the gap between her two homes. Bastard surnames don't exist in the Summer Isles and for a family as old as the Qos, "Sand" is an insult.

Their home for the next two weeks is a sprawling beach-front property on the northern coast of the island. Her mother will fly in from Braavos later in the week, but she has the house prepped for them. Chilled champagne from the family winery and a "Welcome" note await them when they enter. Their bedrooms are made up, including bathrobes, pajamas, and loungewear from her lingerie brand's exclusive line. And schedules for a personal chef and housekeeper are posted on the refrigerator.

They're accustomed to luxury accommodations from growing up in Sunspear, but the level of detail surprises her sisters. "Hospitality is a big deal down here," Sarella says, taking in the view of crystal blue tides rolling onto the white sand. They have the day to themselves before meeting with their handlers in the morning. She can't think of a better welcome than sipping champagne out on the beach. "We should probably get some sun," she suggests. "You three need to tan if you want to look as good as me in your Festival costumes. Especially you, Tyene."

The blonde sticks her tongue out at her. "Do we have the beach to ourselves? I'd like to avoid tan lines without putting on a show for the locals."

"All our beaches are nude," Sarella says. "Unlike Westerosi, we aren't scandalized by nudity."

Nymeria, champagne bucket and flutes in hand, is first through the patio doors. "I always did love it down here."

* * *

The next few days are a blur. They meet with their handlers and set up headquarters in an abandoned city warehouse. From there, Sarella runs surveillance on the Freys, Tyene tinkers with formulas in a makeshift lab, while Obara and Nym run location-scouting in the city. Heeding Oberyn's warning, Sarella takes care to center herself in her downtime. She runs on the beach at dawn and declines her sisters' invitations to hang out in the evenings to stay in and review mission notes. Each night as she falls asleep, she recalls the faces of women she saw that day and wonders which of them would be the Freys' next victims.


	2. Meet the Qos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No matter what you tell yourself, this isn't 'a job' for you. I would be more concerned if you felt nothing." Sarella's mother smiles. "Try to keep your blood lust at bay for your grandfather tomorrow night? He already thinks you're too Westerosi."

Jolona Qo, CEO of Feathered Kiss, Incorporated and heiress of the Sweet Lotus Rum Company, is a woman of five and forty, her once-lithe body lushly curved with age. Even dressed in the loose silks and pantsuits she prefers, her womanly figure is always apparent and Sarella often caught her father gazing at her mother's shape as if no time or circumstances ever changed between them. Considered plain-faced in her youth, Jolona shocked her parents at six and ten when she sheared off her thicket of black curls, revealing fiercely feminine features: wide, doe eyes with naturally-curled lashes, high cheekbones, and full bowed lips. She's preferred the no-nonsense, close-cropped style ever since with occasional blonde or red dyes to complement her walnut complexion. Her cool ebony eyes are flecked with warm hints of hazel, but that is a secret known only to those she allows close enough to see them. It is a short list.

Jingling gold bangles announce her entry as she walks in the beach house wearing head-to-toe white linen, her signature low-cut hair dyed a shimmery bronze. She is a whirlwind of luggage and commands, instructing the driver where to place her bags while running through a to-do list on the phone with her assistant. Delivery men follow, carrying four large garment bags, each stitched with one of their names. Twenty minutes pass before she's off the phone and able to greet them properly. She shares polite hugs with Obara and Tyene. Nym, a VIP customer of Jolona's lingerie and cosmetic lines, offers a warm "Lady 'Lona" before they share a friendly embrace. When Sarella approaches, her mother holds her face in her hands, the hazel sparkling in her eyes before hugging her. "Home agrees with you," she says. "Though I wish you were here under better circumstances."

So do I, Sarella thinks.

After dinner, while her sisters try on their gowns and festival costumes shipped from Braavos, Sarella and Jolona catch up over wine in the den.

"How are you, my dear? Truly?"

"I'm fine..."

"Sarella."

She sighs. "You've spoken with Father."

"Occasionally, I speak with my child's father about my child. Shocking," Jolona tugs one of Sarella's springy curls. "I know you want Oberyn to trust you. But I'm just your mother--not your boss. You can tell me the truth."

"I think of the women they're taking and I..." Sarella closes her eyes. "I keep seeing the Freys in a room. At a dinner table, maybe? And we slit their throats, one-by-one...I've never felt this way about a job."

"No matter what you tell yourself, this isn't 'a job' for you. I would be more concerned if you felt nothing." Jolona smiles. "Try to keep your blood lust at bay for your grandfather tomorrow night? He already thinks you're too Westerosi."

Right. Her mother's family. She'd barely thought of them the last few days. "If my sisters hear anyone speak ill of Father, I won't be the only blood-thirsty one."

"I'll handle the family. Channel your anger into wiping that scum off the face of the known world."

Sarella, incredulous, raises a brow. "Since when are you so enthusiastic about my work?"

"You are a Qo, descended from Xanda and Chatana. Protecting the Isles from slavers is in our blood." Her mother kisses her forehead. "Send the unwashed bastards to hell."

* * *

The Festival Masquerade Gala is held at the center of the city at Garrin's Square. Generations ago, it was a rooftop event, separating the city's elite from its everyday citizenry. When Sarella's grandfather, Tallor Qo, ascended to leadership at the Sweet Lotus Rum Company, his wife Narra brought the event ground-level, erecting tents in the square, contracting local vendors, and donating all proceeds to children's organizations on The Isle of Women.

The familiar sound of brass and drums fills Sarella's body, her hips moving on their own accord while she accepts a glass of rum from a peacock-masked waitress. The dinner table is...not the disaster she expected. In fact, some of her family members look a little too friendly with her sisters. Obara, who never met a big, brooding man she didn't want, is chatting with her gun-running cousin Zabol. Meanwhile, her Aunt Jarrah, an attorney and notorious philanderer, flirts shamelessly with Nymeria as if her wife isn't a few feet away. Only Tyene seems to be in a non-seductive exchange. Sarella doubts that will last all night.

"So, Granddaughter," Tallor asks when she returns to the table. "How's the cybersecurity business? Profitable?"

"Quite. Especially in Westeros where one family has a monopoly on the tech business." The Hightowers had built their modern empire in the digital space, making their products a feature in nearly every home in Westeros. The criminal families knew well enough to arm themselves against Hightower surveillance--the rest of the continent was just waking up to the potential privacy violations. "Sales of my privacy software are really picking up."

He nods, impressed. "Maybe when you're at the enterprise level, we can explore installing it at Sweet Lotus. We're woefully behind on digital security."

Janal, her mother's younger brother, chimes in. "We could use that expertise _in_ the company. If only our dear Sarella didn't prefer the charms of life up north."

Sarella sets her drink on the table, ready to do battle, but her mother beats her to it. "Oldtown is the digital hub this side of the Narrow Sea," Jolona replies in a chilly tone. "You hone expertise in the hotbed of an industry."

Ignoring her mother, her uncle turns back to her. "I suppose you can't help it. You're as anxious for the world as Jolona was at your age. Next, you'll be swept off your feet by some Dornish rogue. My apologies. It's a Braavosi banker these days, correct?"

"That would be the Executive Vice President of the Iron Bank, Brother." Jolona's never needed her paramour's title for status, but she sets it in front of Janal like a dragon piece on a Cyvasse board. "And yes, I'm afraid Sarella got it honestly. Some strike out to make their own way, some believe the world begins and ends at their mother's teet. To each their own, I suppose."

The banter continues, but Sarella can barely hear it. She's thinking of the mission. Of the Freys. They've likely landed and are in their hotel; drunk, high, and boasting about the women they'll fuck. Women who left home for jobs and errands, women in dive clubs drinking and wining in dark corners, girls who've yet to know their first pleasure and kind-hearted mothers...were all under threat while her family lectured her because she prefers to live a few hundred miles north. She's toppled brutal regimes. Crippled crime syndicates. Powered down entire city blocks with a flick of her finger. She could shoot into this crowd from the top of a 20-story building across the street and nail her target without breaking a sweat.

Thank the gods her mother is here. Who knows what Sarella would say if forced to participate in this benign conversation.

From the other end of the table, Nym waves her empty glass and points toward the bar. Relieved for the chance to get away, Sarella follows her sister's lead. They stop at the bar, where Nym orders two shots, and head to the bathroom where she meticulously reapplies her lipstick. She is absurdly beautiful, her tanned olive skin glowing against a lilac gown and thick, raven-black hair pulled into a braid cascading from the top of her head. 

"Okay," Nymeria pulls a rolled tigerwood leaf out of her clutch. "This is an intervention."

Sarella looks quizzically at the joint and shots. "It looks like quite the opposite." 

"This job is personal for you. Your family is a handful. You don't want to disappoint Father. But you have to relax, Sarella." Nymeria takes a quick hit of the joint and passes it. "Here."

"I don't--"

"--smoke before a job. But we've unanimously decided you need to chill out. So you'll hit that," she slides a shot across the counter, "and take this shot. Then your cousins will take us to a real party where you'll dance, drink more, and let one of the gorgeous men on this island fuck all those thoughts out of your brilliant little head."

Sarella has to admit--if this was any other gig, she would have a good time the night before. After all, she centered herself on the dick of that Ebonhead man before the Qohor job, and that was their biggest gig yet. She stares at the joint. Her head holds too many voices: her father telling her to stay focused, her mother saying it was okay to be angry, her own voice singing "bloody murder." Maybe some light debauchery was a good idea.

"Quickly. Your cousins are pulling their cars around back for us."

"Fuck it," Sarella says. She opens her mouth and takes a long hit, letting the sweet, heavy smoke linger on her tongue before blowing a curl out of her nostrils. Tonight, she will unwind. Tomorrow would take care of itself. 


	3. The Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After clearing her mind once and for all, Sarella comes up with the perfect revenge. And the Frey brothers meet a disturbed, grisly fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS GOT DARK. 
> 
> This is more explicit than anything I've written to date. I updated the content warnings to reflect the following themes: drug-induced sex, non-consensual sex, and sibling incest. 
> 
> Keep in mind that the Sand Snakes are assassins and daughters of Oberyn Martell in a very dark, criminal underworld.

Centuries after sexual pleasure was considered an act of worship, Summer Islanders still delight in coitus as wine enthusiasts consume a full-bodied Arbor Red. Malthar, her company from the previous evening, was no exception. She knew when she spotted him in the dive club--handsome, seven feet tall and slender with almond butter skin, hips moving like water on the dance floor--that he would be a perfect distraction. Malthar was more than that. He was the old Summer Isles gods in human form. He left no inch of flesh un-worshipped, no opening unfilled. When she wakes in the morning in sheets that smell of rum and sex, it is not as if she's fought a delicious battle, as it would be with rougher lovers. Instead, she feels as if she's had an inside-out body massage, every muscle kneaded to languid relaxation--her brain most of all.

Sarella doesn't walk the man to the door in the morning, she floats. "Thank you," she says, blush tinting her face. "Last night was..."

He bends down to kiss her cheek. "Thank _you_, Sarella. It was truly my pleasure." Even his voice is liquid. "I look forward to meeting again next time I'm in Oldtown."

"Likewise. Let me know when you get home?"

He nods on his way out the door. She watches his long-legged stride down the walkway until he's out of sight.

"Someone's been set to rights," Nymeria says from her seat in the kitchen.

Sarella bites her bottom lip. "Indeed."

"You were pretty quiet. I assumed you were in your cups and fell asleep."

"Some lovers make you scream. Others..." she gazes wistfully toward the door. "Others fuck the sound right out of you."

Nymeria smirks. "Well. If you need a hangover cure, Tyene's made some of her famous smoothies."

"No need. But I'm glad she's awake. Get her and Obara in here. I have some notes for the mission."

* * *

It's hard not to get carried away in the extravagance of Festival. Especially once they're in costume.

Her mother designed them with each woman in mind. Obara is in bronze, wearing a warrior's helm with a blunted gold spear as her accessory. Nym is in rich purple, a gauze lilac skirt with high slits highlighting her long, shapely legs, a crown of lilacs on her head. Tyene is in a pure blue that matches her eyes, wearing a bedazzled septa's cap, with fabric covering the bottom half of her face. And Sarella is adorned in peacock feathers, carrying a golden wood bow and arrow like the Summer Isles princesses of lore.

Their orders are clear: during the day, they are normal Festival-goers. They ride her family's sponsored float in the parade through the city, dancing to horns and drum beats and throwing water and feathered necklaces to the crowd. Her cousins are on board as well, teaching her sisters proper Summer Isles hip and waist wines. When she thinks they aren't looking, Sarella takes video on her phone, memorializing the rare instance of her two families existing in harmony.

"Status on the targets?" Nymeria asks her, tossing a handful of necklaces to the street.

Sarella checks the surveillance footage on her phone. Symond and Jared are on-screen, popping the pills that were staged in their hotel room the night before. "Enjoying the gifts Tyene cooked up for them."

Her sister smiles; her dark eyes, identical to their father's, shining. "Excellent. I can't wait to see them later."

* * *

On the record, the Qo family and their Sand guests retreat from the parade to a private party in one of the two beach houses the family rented for Festival week.

What actually happens is the Sand Snakes report to their warehouse headquarters to shed their costumes and prepare for phase two of the mission.

After a small hotel party with agents planted by the Summer Isles government, Symond and Jared head to The Temple--one of the most notorious strip clubs on the Isle of Women. Obara is camped in a van outside the bar, running point and surveillance. Tyene is inside, staged as a bartender. Nymeria and Sarella, disguised in head-to-toe gold body paint and ornate gold masks with feathered headdresses to blend in with the other waitresses/dancers, will execute Sarella's new plan.

The Freys' VIP room is bathed in blue light, making Sarella and Nymeria appear as shimmering statues come to life when they find the brothers slouched across couches, the drugs from the hotel already taking effect. They are two of the most unremarkable men Sarella's ever seen. Average in body; neither particularly short or tall, muscled or flabby. They share the same floppy brown hair and dull brown eyes. The world will not miss these men, she thinks, while Nymeria stands before Jared, placing a high-heeled gold foot between his legs. "Wake up, sleepyhead..." she croons, toes inching dangerously close to what appears to be his budding erection.

Sarella, uninterested in playing cooing seductress, slaps Symond across the face, delighting in the shock in his eyes before wrapping her hands around his throat. "Nod if you can hear me," she whispers in his ear. He opens his mouth, but words don't form, only a frustrated grunt.

When the pair arrived at the bar, Tyene prepared a drink for each of them. Jared's was spiked with an erectile dysfunction pill; Symond's with a tranquilizer. He could feel his body, but he couldn't move. Neither could speak, thanks to the drugs planted in their hotel room.

Tyene does such excellent work, Sarella thinks.

"You seem very worked up," Nym says, brazenly running her foot over Jared's pant-covered cock. "We hear you've had a lot of party favors..." He nods slowly, his eyes pleading for relief as he reaches for Nymeria's thigh. She slaps it away. "Now, now. Don't touch without permission."

Sarella tightens her grip on Symond's neck, watching his eyes bulge. "We may be inclined to help you with your little problem...if you follow directions." She retrieves a pair of handcuffs from her headdress and locks his hands in front of him while he gives a panicked whimper.

Nymeria straddles Jared's lap, grinding against him in slow, torturous circles. She throws a glance over her shoulder. "You know who you two remind me of? Those brown-haired dragonlords. What were their names, again?"

"Rhaenyra's sons? The Strong boys," Sarella answers, slowly unbuttoning Symond's shirt to reveal a hairy, tone-less chest. "I see it with this one. Look at these full lips." She peers over at Jared and shoves three fingers in Symond's mouth. 

"You know dragonlords of old laid together, brother and sister," Nym grinds harder in Jared's lap. He lets out a desperate sigh. "I bet brothers shared beds as well. They were all so beautiful. Don't you like your brother's lips? They might feel good wrapped around your cock."

Sarella can feel Symond's pulse speed up. She chokes him again, this time lighter. Almost teasing. "Shhhh. It's okay. No one has to know. That's why you come here, right? Because anything goes?"

Nym unzips Jared's pants. "Take your pleasure, Jared," she pants. "I know you want to..."

Sarella sees the change flicker in his eyes. He's gone from desperate to determined, staring hungrily at a wide-eyed, terrified Symond. "Don't worry," she soothes, whispering in Symond's ear. "I bet he'll make it good for you. Just like you do for the women you steal from their homes." She puts her fingers back in his mouth--four this time--pushing them in and out, putting on a show for his brother.

Nym ghosts a hand over Jared's exposed cock and glances at Sarella. "Should we leave them to it?"

She wipes her hand on Symond's pants and takes in the view before her. Symond's shaking his head, trying to indicate "No" with what's left of his facilities. Jared is feral; so outside himself, he can't recognize the man sitting next to him as anything more than a means to release. Both are utterly helpless. 

Sarella is satisfied.

She has no desire to watch what unfolds as she and Nymeria leave the room. Before the door clicks shut, they hear "MMMMMPH" followed by a relieved moan.

* * *

In the morning, Symond and Jared Frey will be reported dead of an apparent drug overdose in a Summer Isles nightclub, victims of partying too hard, too far away from home.

The crime families of Westeros will receive the video of a different, more sordid truth--stripping the Freys of all credibility with their "salt of the land" Northern allies. A few bastards, too far down the line to be associated with the family, will maintain their positions. The majority, including Old Walder, will be shamed out of the underworld altogether.

Due to the number of drugs seized from their hotel room and the background checks run on the Frey brothers' contacts, no one from the Northmen's crew can legally enter the Summer Isles again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things: 
> 
> 1\. "Malthar" is loosely-based on NBA star Serge Ibaka. He *might* pop up again in the future.
> 
> 2\. (Re: the end) In canon, there are exiled Summer Islanders all over the world. I like to think they don't really fuck with people disturbing the balance of their region and may frequently exercise extra-judicial means to keep the peace.


End file.
